


downward facing dog

by robpatFF



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 05:17:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robpatFF/pseuds/robpatFF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The yoga mat is heavier than he remembers, and dustier, and Zayn realizes it’s been a few good months since he’s been able to do this proper. Been able to stretch out his mat and stretch out his own body and feel the ache of release, the burn in his muscles as he pushes himself past the sting of it and just <i>breathes</i>. His fingers grip around the edge of the mat in anticipation, his shoulders already relaxing as he sets it down in the living room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	downward facing dog

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Natasha for talking this out with me earlier. Thanks to Zouis for always being the inspiration. 
> 
> This is only looked over by thine own eyes, so all mistakes are mine. As usual, nothing is mine but the laptop this was written on.

It’s the sun that has Zayn blinking awake, squinting at the light that filters through the blinds. The bed is warm, covers heavy and draped over him, and he’s sweating a bit, from the bed and the body stuck to his back. He cranes his neck a little, catches the hair that falls in Louis’ face and the slight parting of his pink lips.

He’s exhausted, probably, with the way he carried on the day before. A blur of restless energy, pulling at all Zayn’s limbs and pushing all his limits until Zayn was ready to hold him down and fuck him quiet, just to see if he could. But Louis is quiet now, legs tangled together with Zayn’s and the only sign of his excess energy are the bruised, dark half-moons under his eyes, the subconscious furrow between his eyebrows. 

Zayn feels the same muted buzz under his own skin, how he’s still sleep-slow and dazed but his fingers are tapping out a beat against his pillow. It’s indicative of a break, of nothing planned or scheduled and the built up adrenaline pumping through his blood that won’t find a release in a performance for a few weeks. It’s nerve-wrecking, finding another outlet, not being able to exhaust himself on stage until all he can do afterwards is lazily get off and fall asleep pressed against the scent of Louis’ soap and shampoo. 

He could do it now, get Louis to suck him off or just rub one out against Louis’ thigh. Might not help though, because the restlessness Zayn feels is bone deep, stretching across his skin and pushing him to his feet far earlier in the day than he’d like. He’s heading to the hall cupboard more out of habit, the tradition drilled into him. 

The yoga mat is heavier than he remembers, and dustier, and Zayn realizes it’s been a few good months since he’s been able to do this proper. Been able to stretch out his mat and stretch out his own body and feel the ache of release, the burn in his muscles as he pushes himself past the sting of it and just _breathes_. His fingers grip around the edge of the mat in anticipation, his shoulders already relaxing as he sets it down in the living room. 

This room has the best light, so all Zayn has to do is turn on his sound system. It’s some weird mix Liam found him awhile back, the melody steady and soft and rhythmic so Zayn can lose himself in it. He pads back into the bedroom carefully, glancing over at the bed to make sure Louis’s still asleep, watches for the careful, deep rise and fall of his chest. Zayn manages to get a change of clothes without making too much noise, slipping into his stretchy pants and one of Louis’ discarded tanks without waking him.

Zayn settles in the living room. The music already has him a little slow, more relaxed than he was when he woke up. He stands with his feet a few inches apart, bends until he feels the burn in his calves and thighs and reaches down to touch his fingers to the base of the mat. It’s a small stretch, the first of many, but it has Zayn letting out a heavy, relieved exhale. He closes his eyes, feeling the slight strain in his arms and the blood rushing to his head.

The music plays on, the end of a track transitioning seamlessly into the beginning of another, and Zayn breathes. A soft constant _inhale, exhale_ , in to the count of ten and out at eleven, over and over as he drowns out his thoughts and concentrates on the small, minute movements of his body.

It’s a process, long and continuous. Zayn can still feel the energy thumping under his skin, the rattling thrum of tension and frustration and excitement spilling out of his veins, filling him up until he feels like he might burst with it, all of it at once. So he breathes, breathes through it, pushes past the lump in his throat and inhales so deep his lungs burn. 

He feels the static buzz flickering at the edge of his awareness, his signal to start pushing his body, feeling the stretch until that’s all he feels, all he’s thinking about, the current pose and the next one and the next one. It calms him down, having something else to think about besides their next show and the lyrics and living up to thousands of expectations being thrust at him under heavy stage lights.

The floor creaks behind him, and a little bit of Zayn’s concentration cracks, his thoughts filtering back in and he peeks between the gap in legs. It’s just Louis, sleep-rumpled and creased, dressed in a pair of rolled up sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt that hangs off one of his shoulders.

Any other time Zayn might fuck the sleepiness out of him, lick at the exposed skin of his collarbones and shoulder and bite bruising marks until Louis is squirming and gasping and _begging_ for it but--

Zayn inhales. Counts until ten and exhales out slow enough on eleven that he trembles with it. 

“Sorry,” Louis croaks out, voice raspy with sleep and overuse. He fidgets in the doorway, his fingers curled tight around the frame. “Woke up and you weren’t there.”

Zayn closes his eyes again. Listens for Louis’ breathing, the way the floor creaks and groans under his shuffling. Zayn shimmys a little until his feet are together, closes the space between his legs so all he can see is the sky blue of the mat and not the bags under Louis’ eyes or the way he curls his toes into the carpet. 

“C’mere,” Zayn says eventually, coming out of the stretch and settling on his bum in a butterfly pose.

Louis makes a hesitant noise, quiet enough that Zayn would miss it if he wasn’t listening for it. “I could just go back to bed,” Louis tells him. “Or call up Harry or something. He said there was some record shop he wanted to try? So I could--do that, maybe.” He trails off a little, fingers tapping against the door frame, and Zayn’s not even looking at him, but he still wants Louis to just fucking stand _still_.

“ _Louis_ ,” Zayn says, struggles to keep his voice even with all this renewed energy buzzing through him like white noise. He pats the space beside him, scooting over a little on his mat. “Come here, okay?”

It’s a moment before Louis does, his feet stepping carefully until he’s right next to Zayn, staring down at him like he doesn’t know what to do.

“Sit,” Zayn tells him.

Louis does, his shoulders held up like taut strings, and Zayn wants to play him, tune him up until he’s back to himself and settled again. He doesn’t touch Louis now though, just watches him watch Zayn, both of them quiet.

“What now?” Louis asks eventually, and Zayn blinks, takes in the crack at the end of the question, how carefully Louis seems to break apart when he’s asking to be put back together. His hair hangs messy over his forehead, his eyes rimmed red with exhaustion and energy and not knowing how to act when he doesn’t have to put on a show every night. 

“You look like shit,” Zayn says, mostly to see the hint of a smile at the edges of Louis’ mouth, the slight relaxation in his shoulders and back. 

Louis shrugs, careful still, his nails digging into the mat. “Knackered. I could go back to sleep for a few hours, leave you alone.”

“I want you with me,” Zayn tells him, makes sure he’s not looking at Louis and doesn’t spook him, both of them unnervingly fragile under the morning light, the weight of exhaustion and anticipation making them breakable. “And this’ll help.”

Louis makes a soft, incredulous noise. “This is more your thing, isn’t it? I’m not really--”

“I want to show you,” Zayn cuts in. “And then it can be our thing, maybe.”

Louis doesn’t answer, but he also doesn’t leave, doesn’t try and protest again. So Zayn rolls up to his feet, stretching down into a slow and careful downward dog. “Just do what I do.”

There’s another pause, one that lasts the length of two and a half _inhale, exhale_ repetitions. Zayn’s breathing out, careful and steady, when Louis rolls to his feet too. His movements are stiff, wary, but he manages, his bum stuck up in the air and his palms pressed flat to the floor. 

“Straighten your back,” Zayn tells him, and he watches as Louis does, his biceps straining with the effort of holding himself up. Louis looks over at Zayn for confirmation and Zayn can’t help the, “good,” he murmurs that makes Louis swallow, makes him breathless for a second and Zayn watches his chest heave. _Good boy._

“Breathe,” Zayn reminds him, and he makes sure to amp up his own _inhale, exhale_ , in until ten, out at eleven.

In until ten, out of eleven, both of them breathing in and out against the backdrop of the music. 

Zayn slides up, one foot lunged in front of him and one stretched straight out behind. He breathes

_in_

_out_

and extends his arms out to his side, careful not to hit Louis with his limbs. He doesn’t look at him, is only aware of the shuffling of Louis’ feet, how he struggles to stay steady but manages, mirroring Zayn. 

“Make sure your knee’s bent a little,” Zayn tells him quietly. “Knee over your ankle.”

He can see Louis nod out the corner of his eye, can see the fringe falling in his face and Zayn aches to fix it for him, to piece him back together and make him be _good_. He doesn’t touch Louis though, not yet, just goes through his breathing in his head, makes sure Louis does the same.

“Now the other leg,” Zayn says eventually, and they switch in tandem. They’re arranged now so Zayn can see the muscles in Louis’ back shifting under his thin t-shirt, how his thighs bulge against the soft material of his sweatpants. Zayn swallows hard and makes his hands into fists, curls his fingernails into the meat of his palms until it hurts.

_inhale, exhale_

He moves up into a tree pose, his skinny legs coming together first, his hands on his hips, steadying. He wobbles a little, out of practice, as he lifts his foot to his ankle first, waiting until he’s balanced before dragging it up his calf and holding it against his thigh. This pose is his favorite, all his concentration focused on staying steady on his feet, keeping his body still and holding the pose as long as he can.

Louis huffs a little beside him, and Zayn catches him tilt a bit, and his arm reaches out before he’s thinking, curling around Louis’ waist.

“I can’t,” Louis breathes out.

Zayn digs his fingers into his sides, doesn’t let go even when Louis starts squirming. “You can.” He moves out of the pose and steps carefully behind Louis. He catches him by the chin when he starts to turn around, forces his head forward and straight. “Eyes in front, okay?”

And Louis nods.

Zayn whispers another _good, you’re doing so good_ , that has Louis nodding again, a little desperate when Zayn fits his hands around Louis’ waist and speaks into his ear. “Stand up straight, feet together.”

“Okay.”

Zayn bites at his ear, scolds him. “And be _quiet_.”

He lets Louis stand there for a second, both of them breathing in tandem, and Zayn can feel Louis’ back and shoulders moving with it. He lets them breathe, taps out the numbers until ten against Louis’ stomach and exhales against his neck on eleven. 

“Good,” Zayn says. “Now lift your right foot up and rest it against your left ankle. Slow.” He moves back a little as Louis does it, his hands just skimming Louis’ sides now. “There you go, slow.”

Louis swallows, flicks his head back a little to get his hair out of his eyes. 

Zayn moves back a little more, and Louis lets out an inquisitive noise that almost jolts Zayn out of this feeling, the sedated calm he can feel taking hold of his bones as he talks and Louis _listens_. “’M right here,” he mumbles. “Lift your foot up a bit, just a little at a time. _Slow_ , Lou.”

It’s a sight to behold, the curve of Louis’ waist from behind, the way his bum rounds out, the shapeliness of his thigh and his other foot digging into the meat of it.

“So good,” Zayn breathes out, and he watches Louis’ shoulders slump a little, his breath slowing down. “Arms up. Hold it.”

Louis trembles a little, his leg shaking. “Zayn--” he spits out before he catches himself, nods in acquiescence.

Zayn watches him count, can almost see the numbers in his head as he inhales deep, how he nearly slumps over on the exhale. He’s quiet though, looser, the strain in his muscles from the stretch and not any pent up energy looking for a release. He’s a version of himself Zayn doesn’t get to see often, only on days like this, when he breaks himself apart and lets Zayn glue his pieces back together, one by one.

Zayn breathes in ( _one two three four_ ) up until ten, lets out a shuddery breath at eleven that belies the steadiness of his directions and speaks more to how good Louis looks, how much calmer Zayn feels.

Zayn moves back beside Louis, directs him into another pose, then another, their bodies moving in tandem, stretching past their limits and their thoughts. There is only the count of breaths, the strain of limbs and muscles, a flash of skin here and there and the static buzz in Zayn’s head. The one that slows all his thoughts down to _breathe, move, Louis_ until that’s all Zayn knows.

Zayn’s arms are shaking by the last pose, his eyes squeezed shut with the effort as he drops to his knees and arches forward in child’s pose. He feels Louis move next to him, can feel his body heat, can imagine the sweat sticking to his hairline, tasting sweet in the dip of his spine. Zayn keeps his eyes shut and lowers himself until his forehead’s resting against the floor, his arms stretched out in front of him.

They stay like that for a while, breathing in time to the music, letting their legs rest. It could be just five minutes, maybe more like ten, until Zayn’s pushing himself up on wobbly arms. Louis follows, his eyelids drooping dangerously and his mouth tilted into a crooked, soft smile.

“Good?” Zayn asks, and Louis doesn’t answer, just nods, leans forward and rests his head against Zayn’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Louis shrugs, the movement sluggish and lazy. “Feel weird,” he mumbles into Zayn’s shoulder, kissing the skin a little. “Like, good weird though. You know?”

Zayn hums, his hand coming around to rub lightly at Louis’ back, the sharp knobs of his spine. “I know.”

Louis shifts a little until he’s almost in Zayn’s lap, lets out a sound like a purr and nuzzles into Zayn’s neck. “I feel all loose and like--” he pauses, kisses Zayn’s jaw, behind his ear, his mouth. “ _Fuck_ Zayn, I feel so stretched out.”

Zayn gasps a little under the attention. He’s half hard already, from the clingy cotton of his yoga pants sitting snug against his dick and the slow, sensual movements of the poses they’ve gone through. “Dunno if you deserve it,” he manages. He moves his hands down to fit around Louis’ waist, slips them around to squeeze at his ass. “You weren’t very good yesterday.”

“I do,” Louis whines. He grinds down a little, arches his back at the feeling. “’M gonna be good today.”

Zayn swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry in the face of Louis like this, loose and languid and desperate. “How do I know that?”

“You don’t,” Louis tells him. He grinds down again, his bum fitting against Zayn’s dick as he rocks forward. “I’ll show you. Lemme ride you, want you to fuck me, Zayn.”

Zayn’s nodding before Louis is done, nearly falling backwards when Louis stumbles to his feet. “Go get the stuff, hurry up.”

He listens to Louis near running back down the hall, and Zayn tells himself to breathe, tries to get the rhythm back. He’s still got that sedate calmness sticking to him, feels lazy and slow and he wants to fuck Louis like this, feel Louis like this.

Louis comes back naked, his dick flushed pink and curving prettily towards his stomach. Zayn reaches for him despite the, “Didn’t tell you to get undressed,” he murmurs, and Louis smiles a little crooked, breathless, his knees giving out underneath him.

“Gonna make me put my clothes back on?”

“Be quiet and come _here_ ,” Zayn tells him, and Louis stumbles back into his lap, his fingers fumbling with Zayn’s tank top first and then his pants. Zayn can’t keep his hands to himself, running gentle, careful fingers over Louis’ tanned skin, getting him ready when they’re both undressed until Louis’s shaking in Zayn’s lap, his dick red and leaking, his mouth bitten pink.

“Fuck me,” he gasps out. “Zayn, _fuck_ , come on.”

He lifts himself up, lines his ass up with Zayn’s dick until he’s sinking back down on it, shuddering at the feeling. He drops his head to Zayn’s shoulder, moving his hips slow and rhythmic.

“Like this, yeah?” he breathes out, and Zayn nods.

He grabs at Louis’ hips, steadies him as he moves in a little circle, grinding down on Zayn’s dick, lazy and sweet. “Fuck, Lou, just like this.”

Louis mumbles something Zayn doesn’t catch, his mouth moving too slow and too quiet. He grips at Zayn’s shoulders, holds himself up as his hips stutter.

“Feels good,” he says, his voiced cracked and quiet. “You feel good.”

Zayn huffs out a laugh, buries his face in Louis’ hair and bucks his hips up. His bones feel too heavy, like they might stop holding him up at any moment. He’s got that statiz buzz in his head, in his ears, buzzing frantically where his fingers touch Louis’ skin. “ _You_ feel good.”

He can feel Louis smile against his neck, the stretch of his lips. Can feel Louis hot and tight and _too much_ around him, where Louis’s stretched around Zayn’s dick. It’s too much all at once, especially when Zayn’s not really thinking too fast yet, his head still stuck in steady mantra of _breathe, move, Louis_.

“’M gonna come,” Louis chokes out.

Zayn pinches one of his arsecheeks, smiles at the pained little whimper Louis gives. “Should I let you come already?” It’s an idle threat, because he’s too boneless to draw it out, sleepy and slow and wanting to come just as bad as Louis. Wants to fill him up.

“Don’t really care,” Louis gasps. His hips move in these jerky little circles, his dick rubbing up against Zayn’s stomach. “Just-- _fuck_ , Zayn.”

Zayn hums, leans back on his hands so he can hold them both up, can support the way Louis’s leaning on him, forehead slick with sweat and clammy where it pushes against Zayn’s shoulder. “I wanna see.”

Louis lets out a choked sound, biting his lip as his dick pulses, come dribbling down on Zayn’s chest and stomach. “Mmph.”

He starts to still, his chest heaving a little, but Zayn catches him, nips at his ear. “Keep going,” he murmurs. “Make me come, Lou.”

Louis nods, his hips moving even slower now that he’s come, the sensitive head of his dick rubbing against Zayn. He pushes his hair out of his face, and Zayn catches the flush in his cheeks, spreading down over his chest.

“Jesus, you look good,” Zayn tells him, bucking his hips up as much as he can, meeting the tiny thrusts Louis makes.

Louis smiles, quick and trembling, his eyelashes fluttering. “Good enough to make you come?” He leans forward and catches Zayn’s mouth in a sloppy kiss, his breath coming heavy and fast. “C’mon, Zayn,” he slurs. “Fuck me, fill me up.”

Zayn shivers and feels his dick throb inside Louis, both of them moaning at the feeling. Louis drops his head again, digs his nails into Zayn’s shoulders.

“ _Please_ ,” Louis whispers, and Zayn shakes apart, his grip on Louis’ hips tight enough to leave bruises. 

Zayn breathes in, barely makes it to five before he’s exhaling heavy, his lungs burning and the static even louder in his ears. “Shit.”

Louis lifts off him, his thighs shaking where he holds himself up above Zayn. “’M all sticky.”

“You made _me_ sticky,” Zayn tells him. He kisses Louis again, hard and rough and bruising, doesn’t stop until Louis whimpers from it. “Feel better?”

Louis smirks, lazy and content. “Yes, Zayn. ’M all better now. Nice and fucked out.”

“ _Good_.”

Louis stands up, shaky and unbalanced. “I wanna take a shower,” he says. “And then you can make me breakfast as an apology.”

“For _what_?” Zayn asks.

Louis rolls his eyes. He’s got red imprints around his hips, little crescent moons on his ass. “Waking me up so fucking early,” he says. “Making me do _yoga_.”

“You were being a _twat_ ,” Zayn argues. “Next time I’ll take you over my fucking knee and spank the shit out of you.”

He would, has before, but he mostly says it to watch Louis’ flush go deeper, watch the blue in his eyes get darker. Zayn likes the way he shivers. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” is all Louis says though, and for now they both ignore the way his voice has gone breathy and thin. He saunters out of the living room, leaving Zayn to watch him.

Zayn flops down on the mat. His head’s clear, his bones heavy and sated and his lungs burn, from the exercise and the fucking. He closes his eyes, breathes in.

Breathes in until ten, breathes out at eleven, over and over until his breathing gets under control and he can hear Louis turn the water on in the loo.

_breathe, move, Louis_

\-----


End file.
